


something to scream about (with empty lungs)

by shineyma



Series: before you fall [6]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Episode Related, F/M, Gen, POV Female Character, Soulmate-Identifying Timers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-11
Updated: 2015-02-11
Packaged: 2018-03-11 22:40:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3335426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shineyma/pseuds/shineyma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The splinter team returns from Portland to find the Bus gone and Providence empty. The worst is yet to come.</p><p>(Takes place after chapter nineteen of "sometimes (i find it hard to believe)." You may want to read that first.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	something to scream about (with empty lungs)

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, thank you to everyone who has left comments and kudos on the series thus far. I appreciate it.
> 
> Second, I apologize for the long wait. For a variety of very boring reasons, I found myself hating _sometimes_ in the wake of chapter nineteen, and it's been just impossible to work on. The hate is starting to fade, hence this side-story finally being finished, but it's not gone completely. Which means I can't promise an update to _sometimes_ itself anytime soon, for which I also apologize.
> 
> Third, title comes from "Anthem of the Lonely" by Nine Lashes.
> 
> Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review.

By the time they wrap things up with Audrey and return to the jump jet, Jemma is _more_ than ready to leave.

It’s not that she regrets coming to Portland, because she doesn’t. Audrey’s life was in danger, Daniels was insane, and in the end, _all_ of them were needed to stop him. If she had stayed behind, they might not have been able to stop Daniels in time, and Audrey might have been injured—or worse. So she doesn’t—can’t—regret leaving Providence.

She does feel guilty about it, though.

She keeps thinking about the desperation with which Grant kissed her, and the strange resignation on his face when they said goodbye outside of the hangar. It was more than simple concern over her safety (although that was a major part of it, she’s sure). It was _despair_.

The revelation about Garrett rattled him. She knows he’ll never admit it, but she can tell. It was obvious from the moment he arrived at Providence.

Grant has a tendency to see danger around every corner. He walks a very fine line between preparedness and paranoia, especially when it comes to Jemma’s safety. It’s something she finds both endearing and slightly worrying, and she’s long since adjusted to it.

However, he was even worse than usual today (or yesterday, rather).

She could see it as she was patching him up in the lab—the cautious way he was watching the others even as he gave his report on the fall of the Fridge. Then there was later, when they argued over her inclusion in this mission, the way he drew her out of the kitchen after noting the presence of May and Skye. Not to mention his arguments themselves, which clearly indicated that he didn’t trust Coulson to protect her in the field. Then he accompanied her and Fitz to the Bus when they went to pack, even though she could tell he was bored out of his mind listening to the two of them debate what to bring.

She didn’t recognize the pattern at first, but by the time they were waiting for their turns at the polygraph test, when he clearly wanted to speak to Agent Triplett but barely left her side for two minutes, it was obvious.

He was very careful never to leave her alone unless Agent Triplett was available to watch her back.

The only explanation is that Garrett’s betrayal shook him. She can’t possibly imagine what he’s feeling right now; even trying to, picturing Agent Weaver turning against her, makes her chest tight. And Agent Weaver, while an excellent mentor and a very dear friend, doesn’t come close to meaning to Jemma what Garrett meant to Grant.

It’s understandable that Grant is feeling a little off-balance at the moment. That his faith in the team has been shaken is unfortunate, but certainly forgivable. After all, even though it sometimes _feels_ like they’ve been together for years, it’s barely been six months. He doesn’t know any of them even a fraction as well as he knew (or thought he knew) Garrett.

She’s glad he still trusts Triplett, at least. As for the rest of them, she’s sure he’ll relax eventually. He just needs time to adjust, to move on from Garrett’s betrayal and accept that it won’t happen again. In the meantime, she needs to be patient and supportive, and simply be there for him as much as possible.

Ah. There’s that guilt again.

It couldn’t be helped, really. She was _needed_ in Portland. The fact that she was also needed in Providence—well.

She’ll make it up to him.

With any luck, he’s spent the whole time they’ve been gone sleeping. It’s unlikely, but she lives in hope. He really does need to take better care of himself. Between his newer injuries, from the Fridge, and the ones he already had, from the Hub, he really is running himself ragged. And she hasn’t forgotten that he was caught in an explosion at that race track in Florida, either.

At this point, he must be running on nothing but adrenaline and worry. So she does hope that he’s spent these past hours sleeping, rather than just fretting about her safety. Which isn’t _likely_ , admittedly, but the fact that he doesn’t answer when she calls to let him know they’re on their way back is encouraging. What else would keep him from answering, if not sleep?

\---

The question becomes somewhat more urgent (and worrying) when they return to Providence to find the Bus gone—along with Grant, Skye, May, and Koenig. Calls to the mobiles of the first three go unanswered, and no one knows if Koenig even _owns_ a mobile, let alone what the number might be.

“All right,” Coulson says, as they gather in Koenig’s office. “First things first. Fitz, can you get into the security system?”

Judging by the fact that all of the monitors are displaying static and the words NO SIGNAL, Jemma suspects that there’s no longer a security system to get into, but she doesn’t say anything. She simply paces back and forth behind the couch as Fitz attempts to access the base’s system.

“All of the cameras and communication lines have been cut,” he announces after a few minutes. “I’m scanning for archived security footage, but it’s not looking good.”

She bites her lip as she attempts to call Grant for the hundredth time. Once again, there’s no answer. She’s already left him seven messages, so she doesn’t bother with another. She simply returns her phone to her pocket and continues pacing.

She doesn’t _understand_. There are any number of reasons the others might have left the base—if the location or security became compromised, if they received some sort of distress call from other agents, if they decided to seek out trustworthy allies—but none of them explain why they would do so without _warning_.

If the base were vulnerable to attack—or simply under attack (unlikely, as they’ve already checked the front and hangar doors and found no signs of attempted incursion)—there’s no way that Grant (or any of them, really, but Grant especially) would allow them to wander blithely back to it, thinking it safe. If they were at risk, he would alert them immediately.

As for the other options, there’s simply no _reason_ that Grant, Skye, and May wouldn’t contact them if they decided to leave the base. Koenig might keep it to himself—even _after_ they all passed the polygraph, he didn’t seem the trusting sort—but the others wouldn’t.

None of this makes sense.

“I’ve got something,” Fitz says suddenly, and she nearly trips over her own feet.

“What is it?” she asks, hurrying to stand at his shoulder, and he gives her a sympathetic frown.

“It’s not much,” he says. “All of the internal feeds were erased. But there’s a landing assist system in the hangar, and it’s separate. We’ve got two videos. First is May.”

He brings up the video, and they watch in silence as May walks down the cargo ramp. She doesn’t appear to be in any particular hurry, and although she’s difficult (at the best of times) to read, she also doesn’t appear to be in any sort of emotional distress. She’s just…casually leaving the Bus, dressed in cold weather gear and carrying what looks to be a very full duffle bag.

“An entry log has her leaving through the front door a few minutes later,” Fitz adds. “And that’s _just_ her. No one else.” He sighs and brings up another video. “And then there’s this.”

The second video is just as short as the first. Grant and Skye go up the cargo ramp, Grant pauses at the top to raise it, and the video ends a few seconds after the Bus takes off.

“Where are they going?” Coulson mutters, frowning at the screen.

“And where’s Koenig?” Triplett asks.

Both very good questions, but Jemma’s more concerned with what the footage _does_ show than what it doesn’t.

“He’s worried,” she says. The video loops, and she frowns at the tension in Grant’s jaw. Whatever drew him out of the base, it wasn’t good. “Something’s happened.” She chews on her thumb, mind whirling. “But what?”

“Worried?” Fitz asks, leaning back to look at her. “How can you tell?”

“Just _look_ at him,” she says, frowning at him. “I haven’t seen him so upset since…”

Well, since right before they left for Portland, when he was so clearly distressed over her inclusion in the mission. If it hadn’t been literal minutes before they were supposed to leave, she honestly might have searched out Coulson and withdrawn from the mission after their conversation in the corridor. The way he kept looking at her—as though it was the last time he’d ever see her—was beyond worrying, and she’s honestly not sure whether it was better or worse than the resignation with which he said his final _I love you_.

No. Not final. That’s _ridiculous_. It was just a goodbye, like any other goodbye they’ve had over the course of their time together. She knows how he worries over her; of course sending her into the field without him was difficult.

“Skye’s not looking too happy, either,” Coulson adds, and the conversation moves on.

They go over the footage again and again, constantly reiterating what little information they have and repeatedly asking one another the same questions, as though someone actually has answers and will be moved to share them if the questions are voiced just _one more time_. It’s utterly maddening; Jemma is trying to keep a lid on the panic she can feel rising within her, and watching Grant and Skye walk up the ramp over and over is doing nothing for her efforts.

Pancakes might not be the _obvious_ solution, but she thinks they’re a perfect one. They need to keep their heads clear (and their strength up) if they’re going to figure this out, and how better to cheer the others than with a delicious breakfast pastry? Additionally, cooking always calms her, which is a quality she’s sadly lacking, at the moment.

Fitz, of course, is fully in line with this plan.

“I’ll see if we have any in stock,” she says.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “I’ll fire up the griddle.”

She’s almost certain that the kitchen has the necessary ingredients to make pancakes from scratch, and it’s tempting. But there’s always the possibility that something will happen and they’ll be forced to leave in a hurry, and with that in mind, a quick meal would be better. So she enters the store room in search of pancake mix.

It’s hardly standard issue for SHIELD bases, of course, but then, this is hardly a standard SHIELD base.

She examines the shelves with perhaps more focus than is strictly necessary, but thinking about additives and preservatives and planning out future meals is better than the alternative, which is thinking about the tense set of Grant’s shoulders on the video and the desperate way he kissed her and the possible explanations for—

No. Pancakes. She’s thinking about pancakes.

She does find pancake mix eventually, near the very back of the room. It’s tempting to linger—to hide, really—because regardless of what she said to Fitz, she’s fairly certain that pancakes will _not_ be a sufficient distraction from the issue at hand. It’s likely that conversation over breakfast will consist of the same circular arguments that were happening in Koenig’s office, and she’s honestly not sure whether she can face it.

Her timer is a steady green glow in the dimness of the store room, and it’s not nearly as comforting as usual. The reassurance that Grant is alive is nothing to scoff at, of course, but…

 _Alive_ is a very broad categorization. It leaves a lot of room for other things. Terrible things. Things which are _not to be thought of_. And it says nothing of _where_.

But she is a scientist and, recent doubts aside, a SHIELD agent, not a child. She won’t hide in the store room like a silly little girl. She’ll go to the kitchen and make pancakes and stay optimistic, because it’s really her only option, at this point.

So she leaves the store room—or starts to, at least. She pauses to turn off the light, and that’s when she sees it.

Blood.

Jemma’s very familiar with blood. It’s always played a major part in her work, even _before_ she became the default medic for a field team with a habit of getting itself into ridiculous scrapes. (Even before she met her soulmate, a specialist who at times seems to have some sort of death wish.)

So she knows blood when she sees it, and the dark red substance on the wall next to the light switch is most definitely it. Not just blood—a blood _trail_.

Slowly, reluctantly, and with her heart in her throat, she follows it. It moves _up_ the wall, towards the ceiling, and—after a brief moment to brace herself (and check her timer—still green, which is the only reason she’s still standing)—she tips her head back to look.

And finds herself faced with a clearly deceased Eric Koenig.

She thinks she screams, but she can’t be certain. One moment she’s staring up at Koenig, at the ( _literally_ ) bloody mess that is his neck, and then time skips, and she’s pressed against the very back shelves of the store room, hands clapped over her mouth and pancake mix abandoned by the door.

But she thinks she must have screamed, because Fitz comes running, and Triplett and Coulson are only a few steps behind him.

Fitz’s panicked “ _Jemma_!” overlaps with Coulson’s sharp “ _Simmons!_ ” and Triplett doesn’t bother to speak at all; he’s already searching the room.

“What is it?” Coulson demands, as Fitz pulls her away from the shelves. She throws herself at him in a hug, because she _needs_ one, because Koenig is dead and Grant and Skye and May are gone, and there are only so many conclusions to be drawn from such facts. “Simmons! Are you _hurt_?”

“No,” she says, as Fitz clings back with equal force. “No, I’m not hurt. It’s—it’s—”

She can’t say it, so she makes herself let go of Fitz in order to indicate the vent. The three men look up.

Triplett swears. Coulson’s face goes blank. And Fitz lets out a quiet, anguished _no_.

The last is rather more of an emotional reaction than she was expecting, considering their very _brief_ acquaintance with Koenig, and she’s obviously not alone in that.

“Fitz?” Coulson asks quietly. “What is it?”

Fitz swallows loudly. “I found—on one of the windows, I found a message.” He gives her an apologetic glance, and she only has a moment to think _no_ before he continues, “It said _Ward is HYDRA_.”

Jemma’s vision actually goes grey at the edges, and she stumbles back against the shelves as though to put distance between herself and Fitz’s words—which seem to linger in the air, taunting them.

It can’t be.

“No,” she says, weakly. Then, with more force, “ _No_. That’s impossible, Fitz. That’s—it’s—that’s impossible.”

Coulson’s face is set in stern lines, but his voice is kind when he says, “Let’s not jump to any conclusions. There’s a lot we still don’t know.” He exhales slowly. “One thing at a time. Trip, let’s get Agent Koenig down. Then Simmons can take a look.” He gives her a sharp one. “That won’t be a problem, I take it?”

 _Simmons_ would like to tell him to jump in a lake, but she shakes her head. Triplett could undoubtedly make just as accurate a report as she could—if not more so—but she knows she wouldn’t trust it.

She needs facts.

(But she doesn’t _want_ them.)

She stands back and watches silently as Triplett and Coulson remove Koenig’s body from the vent, and though she tries her hardest, she can’t stop herself from (judging the exact height of the vent, estimating Koenig’s weight, calculating precisely how much upper-body strength would be necessary to lift that much dead weight into a vent so far off the ground) _thinking_.

It can’t be true. It can’t be.

Fitz fumbles for her hand and takes it, and his palm is just as clammy as she knows hers must be, but she clings to it with all her might.

“It’s not true,” he says, low and certain. “It’s not true, Jemma. It’s just—it’s a trick, that’s all.”

“Yes,” she agrees, clinging to the explanation just as tightly as she clings to his hand. “It’s misdirection. Someone—whoever—whoever did _this_ ,” (because she can’t say _killed_ , the word literally _will not_ move past the lump in her throat), “is trying to plant doubt in us. Trying to make us suspect Grant.”

“It won’t work,” Fitz says. “We know better.”

She wonders if he’s trying to convince her or himself.

They take Koenig’s body to the kitchen, because it’s the nearest room with sufficient space for a post-mortem. Not that there’s much of a post-mortem necessary; the cause of death is obvious.

But a corpse can tell a lot more than just _cause of death_ , and it’s the rest of the details that Coulson is interested in.

The others talk as Jemma examines Koenig’s body (and she can’t let herself linger over that, how this man who she shared conversation with less than twenty-four hours ago is now nothing more than a _corpse_ ), but it’s all white noise to her.

She needs facts. She can trust facts.

But she wishes she couldn’t—that she could ignore them—because they unfold in exactly the way she’s hoping they _won’t_.

The wound was obviously inflicted in a hurry: it’s sloppy, and part of the trachea was sliced through in the process of crushing it. She can’t stop her brain from noting the angle of the lacerations—and she does try. She tries very hard.

But facts are facts are facts, and this is one of them: the person who inflicted this wound upon Agent Koenig was taller than six feet. May is too short to have done it, and in any case, she left the base before he was killed. Skye was still on the premises at the time of death, but she’s too short to inflict a wound from this angle, not to mention lacking the necessary upper body strength to lift a man of Koenig’s size into the vent.

There’s only one possible conclusion to be drawn.

“Simmons will give her report,” Coulson says, and that’s exactly what she does.

She skips the problem, as it’s obvious, and goes straight to the evidence. She lays it all out, in order, step by step. Most of it, at least. Her voice gives out for a moment, at the end, and she has to swallow twice before she can continue.

She steels herself, lifts her chin, and presents her conclusion. “Grant did this.”

Saying it—hearing the words linger awfully in the air—makes her accept it. Facts are facts are facts, and the fact is, of all of the people who have access to this base, Grant is the only one who could possibly have inflicted this wound.

Which means that it’s true, the message Fitz found carved into the window. He’s HYDRA.

Her soulmate is a Nazi.

“Excuse me,” she says, over Fitz’s violent reaction, and flees without waiting for a response.

She has no particular destination in mind, and in any case, she only makes it three corridors away before her legs just…give out from under her, and down she goes. Her knees hit the ground first and she _just_ manages to get her hands out in time to keep from falling completely. She stays there for a moment on her hands and knees, trying to catch her breath, and then sits back on her heels. She doesn’t attempt to stand.

She’s shaking uncontrollably, all over. She can’t focus on anything—her mind is a jumble, jumping from moment to moment, beginning to examine interactions and then skittering away, unable to follow through. She digs her nails into her thighs, trying to use the sting to center herself, and fails miserably.

It can’t be true. It can’t be. She knows it is, all of the facts support it. But it _can’t be true_.

Grant can’t be HYDRA. He can’t be. He’s _not_ a traitor. Maybe—maybe _Koenig_ was HYDRA? And he tried to kill Grant, so Grant killed _him_ , and he took Skye and left the base because he couldn’t trust that it was secure, since Koenig was—no. No, that doesn’t fit, does it?

If Koenig was a traitor, Grant would’ve contacted them. There’s no way he would allow the team—allow _Jemma_ —to walk into a base that he knew wasn’t secure.

Or perhaps he would.

No. No, that’s not—it’s not possible. Maybe Skye is the traitor. Maybe she…what? Tricked Grant into killing Koenig, left a message to mislead the team, then talked Grant into leaving the base? That’s absurd.

She has to face it. The only scenario that fits all of the facts is the obvious: Grant is HYDRA. He killed Koenig, who must have discovered the truth somehow, then took Skye and left the base because—why? Why did they leave the base? Just to keep Skye from learning that he killed Koenig?

No, that doesn’t work. He had to know that the rest of the team would find Koenig’s body soon enough, and while he presumably doesn’t know about the message Skye left, surely a specialist of his training knows just how much a post-mortem can reveal about a killer.

Killer. God. Grant is a murderer. He’s a traitor. He’s a _Nazi_.

No. No, he can’t be. There _has_ to be some other explanation. But there isn’t. But there _has_ to be.

She becomes aware of a strange keening noise, and realizes a moment later that it’s coming from her. She slumps sideways, against the wall, and turns to place her back against it. She covers her mouth with both hands, trying to stop the noise she’s making, trying to hold back the tears she can feel building—but it’s useless.

Facts are facts are facts. Fact: Eric Koenig is dead. Fact: May left the base before he was killed. Fact: Skye is too short to have inflicted the wound that killed him. Fact: Skye isn’t strong enough to have lifted his body into the vent in which it was found. Fact: Skye doesn’t have the training to effectively garrote a person.

Fact: Grant killed him.

Fact: Grant is HYDRA.

Grant is HYDRA.

Grant is HYDRA.

There’s no denial left in her. She loses her grip on the tears she’s holding back. She hides her face in her knees and sobs and shakes and tries not to scream. Her hands are in her hair, nails digging into her scalp, as though trying to reach right through her skull and into her brain—as though she can scratch the thoughts right out of her.

She can’t breathe.

Grant is HYDRA.

Grant is HYDRA.

Grant is HYDRA.

Grant is HYDRA, and she never had the slightest clue. Even when Garrett—the man who was _like a father_ to Grant—revealed his true loyalties, she never suspected Grant. Not even for a second.

God. Oh, God. What else doesn’t she know? What else has she missed? What else has she allowed to let happen?

She should’ve _known_. She’s a scientist, SHIELD’s best—but SHIELD is HYDRA, too, isn’t it?

Who else is HYDRA? Coulson? May? Triplett?

Fitz?

She digs her nails in harder. No. No, she can’t believe that. She _won’t_. It’s impossible.

But she would’ve said the same about Grant.

How much of it was true? How much of _him_ was true? Did he ever love her at all? Or was she just another lie?

That kidnapping attempt in January…no, he couldn’t have been involved. He was so _angry_ about it, he couldn’t possibly—but he was angry about Garrett being HYDRA. Or at least he appeared to be. He portrayed the emotion so convincingly…

She can’t trust anything about him. The secrets he’s shared, the fears he’s confessed, the emotions he’s claimed to feel…they’re all lies.

 _Everything_ was a lie.

Every kiss, every hug, every caress—every night and day—every _second_ was a lie.

Every time he nagged her about her safety. Every time he protested her involvement in field work. Every time he held her after a nightmare.

His fury when he learnt of her actions on the mission on the train, and the apology in the way he kissed her when he returned from his mission.

The way he kissed her goodbye, his desperation and then resignation, before she left for Portland.

The way he kissed her, on that raft in the middle of the Atlantic, after he saved her life when she threw herself from the Bus.

Saving her life was a lie, too.

Five days in Los Angeles—lies. A week and a half spent with her parents—lies. Five days in—oh. Oh, no.

Italy.

She _saw_ it, didn’t she? When they went into town, that day—she _saw_ the way he became someone else, the way he transformed into an entirely different person in the span of a heartbeat. So convincingly that he was a stranger to her, for those brief minutes, as he talked to and laughed with that man. Even his _micro-expressions_ changed, and she would’ve called that impossible.

She _saw_ it. How did she not—how could she miss the _significance_ of that?

It was all an act. Every moment was a lie.

Her soulmate is a traitor. Her soulmate is a murderer. Her soulmate is a Nazi.

Her soulmate is evil.

Grant is evil.

She thinks it and accepts it and cries all the harder.

\---

Her entire world has narrowed to the grief and anger and guilt and shame and horror she’s feeling, so she couldn’t say how much later it is that Fitz joins her.

She doesn’t hear him enter the corridor, doesn’t realize he’s there until he’s kneeling in front of her, grasping her wrists and pulling her hands from her hair. She knows it’s Fitz by the feel of his hands, the calluses of an engineer so different from the calluses of a specialist, and the realization that she will never again feel Grant’s hands on her brings on a fresh wave of tears. Partially because she shouldn’t _want_ his hands on her, not now that she knows what they’ve wrought, and yet…

Fitz is speaking, trying to calm her down, and she longs desperately for Grant.

She shouldn’t. Even if he were here—even if he hadn’t _killed Koenig and left_ (with Skye, oh—oh God, Skye, how has she not thought of Skye before this, why didn’t he kill Skye, where has he taken her?)—even if it were _him_ offering comfort, that comfort would be a lie. Just a trick—a part of his—his _cover_ , meant to disguise his true allegiance.

Grant’s comfort would be a lie.

…Is Fitz’s?

The thought strikes her right in the chest, and she seizes his hands, stopping him mid-sentence.

“Tell me you’re not HYDRA,” she pleads, voice desperate and wrecked from crying. “Tell me you’re—tell me you’re _you_.”

“I’m not HYDRA,” he swears, squeezing her hands. Engineer’s hands—there’s strength in them, enough that his grip is painful, and it’s a comfort because she has no strength of her own, not now.

They’re just words, and words can be lies, but coming from Fitz—Fitz, whose face is as familiar to her as her own, who has been by her side without fail since their second month at the Academy, who has never let her down—she believes them.

Fitz isn’t a traitor. He’s not.

“I couldn’t bear it if you were,” she admits, and though her tears have mostly stopped the words are thick with them. “I couldn’t—I can’t take that, Fitz. You _can’t_ be HYDRA. I won’t survive it.”

“I’m not HYDRA,” he repeats. “I’m _not_. I promise, Jemma.”

She believes him. She _has_ to believe him. Because if she doubts Fitz—if she _loses_ Fitz—she doesn’t know what she’ll do.

“Okay,” she says. “Okay.”

She looks down at their clasped hands, and the steady glow of her timer—the glow that gave her such comfort, earlier—seems to mock her. Grant is alive and well, somewhere in the world, doing who knows what to who knows _whom_ , and he took Skye with him when he left.

Skye who must have been the one to leave that message. Skye who knows who— _what_ —he is.

Her thoughts are sluggish, trying to fight past the metaphorical molasses of her grief, but she forces herself to focus.

“All right,” she says, and squeezes Fitz’s hands, hoping to ground herself. “What’s our next move? What are we doing to find Skye?”

Grief can wait. Anger and betrayal can wait. Shame and disgust and horror can wait.

She has a job to do.

“We have to fix the communication lines,” he says, and if his business-like tone is just as false as her own, she allows herself to ignore it. “We need to track the Bus. I’ve got a start on it, but I need your help.”

A lie, but a kind one.

“Help me up, then,” she orders. “Let’s get to work.”

They can’t spare the time, really, but she detours to the nearest washroom to wash her face anyway. Something about the idea of letting Triplett and Coulson see her like this—eyes red and face wet with tears—is unconscionable. Fitz is allowed to see her at her weakest.

No one else.

She lets the water run freezing cold before she splashes it on her face—a sharp shock to help her set aside the last of her emotional response. She’s a scientist; she needs to be calm, as cool as this water. There’s no room for feelings in science, only facts.

She needs to focus on the facts.

As she’s drying her face, however, her eyes catch on something in the mirror—something that threatens her hard-earned calm.

The mark on her neck.

Grant left the bruise less than a week ago, whilst saying goodbye at the Hub, and the sight of it hits her right in the stomach. At the time, she thought he was so emotional because of Garrett’s betrayal, and because of his lingering worry from being separated from her as their world fell apart.

Now, she wonders at it. Was it a calculated move? Did he weigh out his options and decide that he _needed_ to kiss her so forcefully, so possessively? Did he decide that an over-emotional response was the least likely to leave her suspicious of his motives in accompanying Garrett (Garrett—oh—is he still alive? The account of the fall of the Fridge must have been a lie, as well, and of course Grant wouldn’t kill Garrett if they’re _both_ HYDRA) to the Fridge?

Skye teased her for this mark. At the time, it was embarrassing, but in a fun way. Embarrassing like being a teenager giggling over a smile from her crush.

Now, it feels like shame. It feels like a proverbial scarlet letter, branding her for all the world to see—that she let a traitor touch her. That she let a traitor _mark_ her. That she let a traitor into her bed and her mind and the very depths of her _soul_ , even.

What does it say about her, she wonders, that her perfect match is evil?

The mark will fade.

But she’s reminded, as she throws away her paper towels and straightens her collar to cover the bruise…

The timer on her wrist is there to stay.


End file.
